A groan that shook him, shook not his Resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up and saw The fillet of the priest, and calm cold eyes: Then turned she, where her parent stood and cried,-- ‘O, Father! grieve no more! the ships can sail!’” When we think of Landor, let us forget his wrangles--forget his wild impetuosities--forget his coarsenesses, and his sad, lonely death; and--instead--keep in mind, if we can, that sweet picture I have given you. _Prose of Leigh Hunt._ It was some two years before George IV. came to the Regency, and at nearly the same date with the establishment of Murray’s _Quarterly_, that Mr. Leigh Hunt,[50] in company with his brother John Hunt, set up a paper called the _Examiner_--associated in later days with the strong names of Fonblanque and Forster. This paper was of a stiffly Whiggish and radical sort, and very out-spoken--so that when George IV., as Regent, seemed to turn his back on old Whig friends, and show favors to the Tories (as he did), Mr. Leigh Hunt wrote such sneering and abusive articles about the Regent that he was prosecuted, fined, and clapped into prison, where he stayed two years. They were lucky two years for him--making reputation for his paper and for himself; his friends and family dressed up his prison room with flowers (he loved overmuch little luxuries of that sort); Byron, Moore, Godwin, and the rest all came to see him; and there he caught the first faint breezes of that popular applause which blew upon him in a desultory and rather languid way for a good many years afterward--not wholly forsaking him when he had grown white-haired, and had brought his delicate, fine, but somewhat feeble pen into the modern courts of criticism. I do not suppose that anybody in our day goes into raptures over the writings of Leigh Hunt; nevertheless, we must bring him upon our record--all the more since there was American blood in him. His father, Isaac Hunt, was born in the Barbadoes, and studied in Philadelphia; in the latter city, Dr. Franklin and Tom Paine used to be visitors at his grandfather’s house. At the outbreak of the Revolution, Hunt’s father, who--notwithstanding his Philadelphia wife--was a bitter loyalist, went to England--his departure very much quickened by some threats of punishing his aggressive Toryism. He appears in England as a clergyman--ultimately wedded to Unitarian doctrines; finding his way sometimes to the studio of Benjamin West--talking over Pennsylvania affairs with that famous artist, and encountering there, as it chanced, John Trumbull, a student in painting--who in after years bequeathed an art-gallery to Yale College. It happens, too, that this Colonel Trumbull, in 1812, when the American war was in progress, was suspected as a spy, and escaped grief mainly by the intervention of Isaac Hunt.